Open by asking them to try it themselves first. Push off from this if it helps: a song you only half remember.

I wasn’t skipping it. I hit C. Then you said it was D. My ear is fine, but the sheet music has that weird accent mark above the staff. Is that a tenor clef? I tried lifting my left hand like you showed me, but the chord sounded muddy. Maybe I’m pressing too hard on the strings. It’s just four notes. Why does it take three tries to get one right?

I’m not crushing them! My fingers are flat because I’m terrified of buzzing. You want a whisper, but the action is so high I have to hammer down to get the note. It’s like trying to type on a brick. I’m using the pads of my fingers, like you said, but it feels wrong. Loose, but not loose. I keep flexing my wrist to compensate, but then the next note lags. You’re watching my hands, right? Not my face. That’s what’s throwing me off.

Right. Arch. I’m arching. But the strings are thick. Steel wound. They don’t bend. I’m trying to pluck with the nail, not the flesh, like you said, but it sounds metallic. Harsh. I can’t find the sweet spot between the bridge and the soundhole. It’s either dead or screeching. Give me the pick. Just the pick. I don’t trust my hands right now. They’re shaking. Maybe it’s the coffee. Black. No sugar. Why do I drink this stuff?

I bought them at Music & Arts last Tuesday. The guy said they were compatible. He said nylon was for classical, but I play folk. Folk needs twang. You’re telling me I’m holding it wrong? I’ve had this guitar for six months. The neck is curved. I can feel the tension. It’s not a classical. It’s a 'traveler' size. Lighter. Easier. Why is my thumb sliding off? It’s oily. Did I wash my hands? I didn’t. I was eating sandwiches. Turkey. With the crusts. That’s why it’s slippery. I need paper towels. And tea. Not coffee. Coffee makes it worse.

It’s not trash. It’s a Godin. I paid two hundred bucks for it. The guy at the counter said it was “concert grade.” He lied. Or I was lying. I don’t know. I’m rubbing it on my thigh now. It’s blue denim. Rough. Good. But the nut is plastic. Cheap plastic. The strings are slipping out of the slot. That’s why I can’t arch. They’re jumping. Like little snakes. I hate snakes. You want me to pretend it’s a Martin. I can’t pretend. I can see the glue seam on the headstock. It’s peeling. Two dollars. That’s what it was worth. Two dollars. Why did I buy it?

Tape? Duct tape? On a guitar? It’s going to leave residue. I don’t have duct tape. I have scotch tape. The kind from the office desk. Thin. Clear. It’ll tear instantly. But you’re right about the palm. I’m choking the neck. It feels weird. Like I’m hugging it. Is that the technique? Hugging? I’m holding it awkwardly. My elbow is flaring out. I can’t arch my fingers like this. The strings are still jumping. I’m pressing too hard. Wait. Did the nut actually move? Or am I just imagining it? Play. Okay. One string. Just one. Don’t look at me.

Super glue? In the nut? I’ll melt the wood. It’s plastic, not furniture. But you’re right about the elbow. It feels weird tucking it in. Like a pigeon. I’m trying to dab. The bottle is tiny. I’m hovering. One drop. Maybe two. It’s seeping. It’s sticky. My finger’s stuck to the headstock for a second. I pulled away. Hurts. But the string sits. Flat. No jumping. I’m plucking. The note rings. Clear. Not twangy. Just... thin. Like a mosquito. But clear. Does this count?

It sounds hollow. Like cardboard. I’m plucking D again. It’s ringing, but it doesn’t sustain. It dies in two seconds. Flat. Dead. Like a stone dropping in dry sand. I’m not looking at the neck. I’m staring at the wall. There’s a crack in the plaster. Jagged. I’m trying to follow it with my eye. But the string keeps slipping out of my nail. It’s tearing. Tiny bit of skin. Bleeding? No. Just red. I’m plucking harder. Louder. It’s still thin. Why is it so quiet? I’m the only one in the room. The walls are thick. Concrete. My apartment’s on the fourth floor. Street noise doesn’t get up here. Just the hum of the fridge. It’s annoying. Plucking. D. D. D.